The fire in the center of the hut glowed bright, warming the modest wooden home against the harsh Frostback winter. Sithig pulled the coverlet from around his bare shoulders and chest and rested his arms atop the soft fur. The woman lying at his side rolled over and snuggled her cheek against his broad chest, a smile of satisfaction gracing her beautiful face. The warrior grazed gentle fingers up her unclad arm, reveling in the feel of her soft skin. It seemed forever since he last touched her.

The part of the bed where his feet rested shifted slightly, and Sithig closed his eyes, pretending to be asleep. Small, slow impressions in the feather mattress alerted him to the advance of an impending attack. The Avvar smiled and braced himself for the onslaught. There was a soft bounce to the bed, prompting him to lift his hand in the air to stop the progression of a tiny body falling toward him. Sithig opened his eyes to see the disappointed frown of a small, blonde boy flailing against his palm.

"Da!" the child cried. "No fair!"

Sithig chuckled as he lowered his son down to his chest and squeezed his shoulders in an affectionate hug then ruffled his hair. "I guess that means you will just have to try again tomorrow," he told the boy.

The auburn-haired woman next to him grinned, her emerald eyes sparkling against the fire's lambency. She gave a quick peck to her husband's lips then kissed the child's chubby cheek. Sithig gazed at her, his Kattrin, drinking in her beauty. He took hold of a lock of her wavy hair and lightly straightened it with the tips of his fingers then inhaled deeply as he marveled at its softness. She kissed him again, but allowed her lips to linger on his longer than the last time.

"How about some breakfast for my two strong warriors?" she asked before screwing up her face in mock concentration. "I am thinking…hearthcakes."

Her words prompted the child to drop his knees to the bed and clap his small hands together with excitement. "With berries?" he giggled.

She cupped his chin and narrowed her lids with a grin. "Of course with berries. No good hearthcake can be made without berries."

With those words, she threw back the fur blanket on her side of the bed and went to rise, but Sithig held her shoulder to prevent her leaving. He couldn't explain it. He didn't want to let her go. Maybe it was the dream he had awaken from. The vision of being surrounded by night-gangers and blood within high walls of crumbling stone, and before that…Kattrin's death. The image of his boy's lifeless eyes staring blankly up at him. His shame. His failure.

Kattrin's brow furrowed in confusion as she gazed back at him. "Not hungry this morning?" she questioned.

Tears welled up in Sithig's eyes as he drew her back into him. He swallowed past a tremendous knot then kissed the top of her head. Her hair smelled delicious, a blend of spring water, fresh milk, and honey. With his other arm, he pulled Amund tight to his chest. He wanted to keep them there with him like that forever, embracing the only things that mattered in his life.

Kattrin turned her face up to gaze into his eyes. A sad smile curled the corners of her mouth as her calloused fingers caressed his cheek. She seemed so distraught, so crestfallen. Her lips parted to release a quiet breath.

"You must awaken now, my brave warrior," she whispered. "The Lady says it is not yet time for your rest."

The sound of heavy rain tapping the window above the bed forced Alistair to open his eyes. The rhythmic tick, ticking against the pane was like the beat of a drum pounding in his head. Every muscle in his body ached, leaving him to feel as if he had been mauled by an ogre. He scanned his surroundings as best he could without moving, and licked his lips, for all the good it did him. His mouth was so dry, he could have sworn someone poured a bucket full of sand into it.

Where the bloody fuck am I?

He didn't recognize anything. He appeared to be in a wooden hovel of some sort with heavy moss thatch above his head. The smell of thick smoke and rot coupled with copper and pungent herbs hung in the air, prompting Alistair to gag despite the pain he knew it would cause to his tender throat.

The hut was stifling. With a good deal of effort, he slid his hands from under the blanket that covered him and realized he was completely nude. Somebody had taken his clothes. He shifted his left elbow intending to lean on it so he could sit upright, and it grazed against something cold and clammy.

He dropped his head to the side only to be greeted by the sight of Solona lying next to him. The injured warrior emitted a sharp gasp. Her skin was completely pale, as white as winter, and her lips held an undertone of light blue. Forgetting his own pain, Alistair rolled over and placed his ear against her chest in an effort to discern a heartbeat.

Please…Maker, please let her be alive.

He gave a heavy sigh when he finally made out a slow, faint palpitation beneath her ribs. She still lived, but just barely. He pulled himself up to prop his weight on his forearm and stared down at her face. With the fingers of his right hand, he brushed the fringe of sable hair from her brow as the tears he was attempting to hold back broke through in gut wrenching sobs. She was so cold, so lifeless.

Gathering her in his arms, he drew her limp body into his chest and held her close. What was he supposed to do without her? She was dying and there wasn't a Maker damned thing he could do to stop it.

As he rocked her gently in his embrace, he placed his cheek to her temple. When she was still in the throes of the taint following her Joining, his voice seemed to calm her and kept her from falling into the abyss. Maybe he could reach her the same way this time.

"Solona," he whispered hoarsely through his tears. "You've got this. You are the strongest person I know. You're not going to let this beat you, are you? Come on. Fight!"

Alistair entangled his hands in her dark hair at the back of her head and squeezed her tighter. His sobs grew more intense. How would he ever make it without her? If she perished, the only light in his world would be extinguished. .

"Please," he wept. "You have to come back…Come back to me, sweetheart. Don't leave me…Please don't leave me…I love you."

He finally spoke the words which had lingered in his heart, but they brought no joy, no sense of relief. She didn't hear them. She would never hear them. She was alive, yet dead, hovering somewhere between the real world and the veil, but not for long. He recalled the kiss his fear prompted him to misplace, and the missed opportunity to share with her his true feelings, feelings she would never know.

Maker, please…If you choose to take her, show mercy. Take me with her.

Sithig was barely conscious and having a difficult time opening his eyes. The aromatic blend of cedarwood, mesquite, rosemary, and sagebrush wafted in the air around him. It was a familiar fragrance, prompting memories of home and long lost kin. Astrid, his clan's shaman, would often employ the burning of such herbs when attempting to heal wounds that refused to mend on their own.

It is a dream, you fool. No more real than the one of Kattrin and Amund.

The last thing the warrior remembered before his body completely collapsed from exhaustion was finding his way to the forest north of Ostagar. It was slow-going, making his way across the battlefield, as he crawled over fallen bodies. To make matters worse, night-gangers still lurked about, prompting the Avvar to proceed by inches. He was forced to play dead so often in the presence of the creatures, he began to wonder if such an endeavor was fruitless. Then he remembered the words of his wife.

The Lady says it is not yet time for your rest.

Kattrin's voice in the back of his mind bolstered his resolve and inspired him to keep going. To keep moving at all cost. By the time he reached the inside of the grove, however, his nerves were raw and his strength had left him.

Sithig urged his lids to open, incited his aching muscles to at least shift, but his efforts were in vain. He was alive. He was aware of that much. But if he wasn't dead, where was he? He was so very tired. Too tired to move. Too tired to think. He inhaled a ragged breath and the world went black once more.

Somewhere in the darkness, beyond the nightmares of battles lost and the deaths of clan and kin, a woman's voice, unfamiliar and serene, whispered to Sithig.

Brave warrior, do not be downhearted. When your strength is regained, travel toward the village of Redcliffe. Along that road, you will find the path you seek.

With those words, a pair of golden eyes pierced the gloom. They were both familiar and foreign. A moment later, the keeper of that raptor-like gaze was revealed. The image of a pale woman with ebony hair wearing a long, black dress floated before him, and the Avvar knew her at once. She was the omen of warning. The Wandering Witch.

Alistair's eyes burned from all the crying he had done, and they were so swollen he could scarcely open them. How long had he been lying there with Solona wrapped in his arms? He had awoken and succumbed to sleep so many times, he lost track. He remembered the hovel being pitch black a few times during his conscious moments, so he knew it had been at least a day. Beyond that, he had no idea.

He slid his fingers up from where his hand rested on the mage's shoulder to the side of her neck. His fingertips found the spot that would help him determine if she still lived. Her skin still felt like ice against his, but he distinguished a faint pulse. Breathing a sigh of relief, he embraced her fully once more.

"And how do you think your fellow Warden will react when she wakes up and finds you squeezing the life out of her like that? Hmm?"

Alistair nearly jumped from his skin at the sound of the creaking voice behind him. He whirled around to be greeted by the amused, golden gaze of the old crone they had spoken to before the battle. She cackled at his bewildered expression and the guilt-laden flush of his cheeks as she rocked her battered wooden chair back and forth. Suddenly it all made sense. The moss roof, the horrible smell. They were in Flemeth's hut. A cold chill ran up his spine.

The warrior glanced behind the witch and spotted his clothes and weapons piled neatly atop a rickety wooden chair next to the small fireplace in the corner. She watched him with a curious gleam in her eyes, anticipating his intentions. He felt Solona's frigid arm against his back. He had to protect her.

In a flash, he lunged toward the old woman, hoping to topple both her and her chair, buying him enough time to reach his sword. Alistair's upper body barely had time to clear the mattress before an unseen hand slammed into his chest and shoved him flat onto his back atop the bed. When he attempted to rise, he found he was unable to move, as if some outside force had taken control of his entire body.

Panic and bile rose up into the back of his throat as he struggled against his invisible bonds. It was no use, he was completely paralyzed. They were going to die, and there was nothing he could do to prevent it. The thought of Solona lying helpless next to him served as a reminder. Perhaps he could do something, after all. Alistair cleared his mind of everything to focus on a mental image of a candle's flame flickering in the darkness. He concentrated on the way it moved and the tiny tendrils of smoke billowing up from the bottom. The grey wisps began floating toward him, bringing with them the power to negate the spell. Before it could reach him, however, the light was snuffed out, leaving him feeling empty and cold.

The old hag laughed. It was a low, hoarse sound which turned the former initiate's insides to mush.

"My, but that is quite the talent, lad," she told him. "I wonder, how did you come to possess such a gift?"

It wasn't a question. Not really. And even if it was, Alistair was hardly in the position to answer. The thump of her chair's back rocker banging into the floor echoed throughout the small room. The front rocker hadn't even had time to tap the hardwood before the witch was leaning over the warrior with a wide, toothy grin. There was no mirth in her yellow eyes, only danger and warning.

"Now," she drawled. "If you have relinquished your vain attempts to vanquish an old woman in her own home, young man, I think it is high time you and I had a conversation."

Alistair tried to speak, but his jaw was locked tight. He couldn't even manage a proper glare at the old woman. She arched a brow before flashing a wicked smirk then, with a flick of her wrist, waved her hand. The warrior found that, although he was still unable to move the rest of his body, he had at least regained his powers of speech.

"And what is it you'd like to discuss?" he questioned in a snarky tone. "Perhaps you'd like to trade recipes? I must apologize, though. I don't know one hundred ways to cook a Grey Warden."

She chuckled with a knowing smile. "So much about you is uncertain. A lost child, wandering alone in the darkness. Much like your father when last I saw him."

Alistair's eyes widened. Like his father? Did she really know who he was? Who his father was? How was that even possible?

"You have his look, you know?" she continued. "Except for the ears, of course. Too much of a point at the tops."

Alistair relaxed his face, trying to regain his composure. "Lots of people have points to the tops of their ears."

"Yes," she chortled. "Elves especially."

He scowled. Why was she bringing up elves? His mother may have been a servant, but from what he knew of her, she had been human.

"Just so you know," he retorted. "I have no idea what you're talking about."

"My," the witch said. "Such unbecoming manners…for a prince. But, what can one expect from a boy reared among horses?" Her smile broadened when she recognized the truth of her words in the warrior's hazel eyes. "I met him once, your father." She indicated to the seat that held Alistair's gear. "Thirty years ago, he sat in that very chair."

Was there any legitimacy to her words? Did Maric really pay a visit to Flemeth all those years ago? His lids narrowed as he attempted to gauge the truth of her words. The witch may have been dangerous, even mad, but she didn't lie. In that fact, at least. Alistair's gaze dropped to his left to regard the mage lying at his side.

"Let her go," he offered. "And you can do anything you like with me. But I have to warn you, there's no one in Thedas who would give you a copper for my hide, let alone the rest of me."

"You are worth more than you can possibly imagine, lad." She glanced down at Solona before returning her attention to him. "As is she. I did not rescue you from that tower to kill you or hold you for ransom. A more important destiny awaits you both."

"You…rescued us?" he asked with incredulity. "But how? Why?"

"I have my methods and my own reasons. For now, we shall say it is because only two Grey Wardens remain to stand against the darkspawn, and both lie here in my bed."

Alistair swore he felt his heart stop. His stomach churned and he thought he might vomit. The sting of hot tears burned his already red and swollen eyes.

"Sithig," he breathed.

"Your large friend has fallen, just as the rest of the Grey Wardens who fought in that hopeless battle…Just as your brother has fallen."

When Alistair's heart finally began to beat again, he thought it might pound out of his chest. His breaths came in short, quick gasps, leaving him dizzy. Sithig was gone. Duncan. Cailan.

The warrior choked on the bile that touched the back of his tongue. He was never supposed to be the one to wear that damned crown. He was always told he would never be king. Why was this happening? What did he ever do in his miserable life to deserve such a fate?

Cailan tried to tell him. To warn him. He knew in that instant exactly what had taken place. One word escaped his lips.

"Loghain."

"Yes," the witch confirmed. "Your father failed to listen to a warning given to him all those years ago. A warning of betrayal at the hands of his most trusted companion."

"He'll die for this," Alistair spat. "I swear to the fucking Maker I will run Loghain through myself."

"That is entirely up to you, lad," she said.

The witch straightened her back before hobbling to the other side of the bed toward the exit. Her fingers grazed the toes of Solona's feet, but the young mage didn't stir at the contact.

"And what about her?" Alistair questioned. "Is she going to be alright?"

The Warden felt the spell on his body release, leaving him free to move. His hands balled into fists as he eyed his sword lying nearby, but he knew it wasn't worth the effort. Flemeth would simply paralyze him again if he tried.

"You are going to need that," she informed him as she opened the door. "Join me outside. I will send Morrigan in to tend to your fellow Warden."

"No," he refused. "I will not leave her."

Alistair had no intention of abandoning Solona. Not even for a moment. He would remain at her side, no matter what.

"I would think you would have learned by now," she began as she waggled her fingers in the air. As soon as she began the motion, Alistair's legs started twitching uncontrollably. The muscles of his calves spasmed with excruciating pain. "I have my own methods for obtaining results." She grinned as the spasms moved up to his thighs. "Shall I continue?"

He gritted his teeth against the assault. If the witch advanced any further up, the torment would become more than any man could bear. He waggled his head.

"Fine!" he seethed. "I'll do anything you want. Just make it stop for fuck's sake."

She twitched her fingers faster, and Alistair was on the verge of blacking out. The progression of her attack continued upward at a rapid pace.

"Manners, my young prince," she crowed.

"Alright!" he screamed with tears spilling down his cheeks. "Please! Please make it stop."

The spasms stopped as quickly as they began, but his muscles still burned from overuse. Alistair panted, fearing he would never catch his breath again. The witch glared at him as her fingers began to move once more.

"You have five minutes, lad," she told him. "I suggest you hurry."

Once outside, Alistair began to pace back and forth across the length of a small pond that lay several yards away from the front door. The witch may have kicked him out of the hut, but he would be damned if he lost sight of it. He didn't trust the old crone, and he certainly didn't trust her daughter, especially not where Solona was concerned. To make matters worse, the oppressive ambience of dark magic surrounding him was disorienting. It felt hungry, alive, as if it desired to swallow him whole.

"Relax, lad," Flemeth told him as she gathered wild herbs from the ground and placed them into the shabby, reed basket in her hand. "Your fellow Warden will join us soon."

He paused to regard the ancient woman with a sneer. "You'll forgive me if I don't trust the words of a witch."

"My," she chortled. "But that is quite the temper you possess."

"Fuck off," Alistair mumbled under his breath as he resumed traipsing back and forth along a short, unseen path.

He half expected the old hag to blast him with a spell, but he was beyond caring at that point. He was hungry, sore, and most of all worried for Solona. He shouldn't have left her. He should have stayed by her side no matter what Flemeth did to him.

On top of all that, he was still feeling the loss of Sithig, Duncan, and even his brother. There was also the nagging in the back of his mind that he would be expected to take the throne, and there was a good chance he would have to get past Loghain and Anora to do so. Then, of course, there was the Blight and the fact that there were only two Grey Wardens left in all of Ferelden to stop it. It would take months for word to reach Weisshaupt that more Wardens were needed.

Everything, all of it, was just too much for Alistair to bear. How was one man supposed to deal with so much insanity heaped upon his shoulders? Ferelden was headed for complete disaster, and, in the end, it would be all his fault. His failure.

The Blight was just beginning. Ostagar was only a taste of what was to come. The horde would eventually move north from the Wilds and the true destruction of Ferelden would commence. They would decimate everything in their path. With no outside aid, the country would die along with all her people.

At that moment, the rest of Ferelden was unaware of anything more than rumors and speculation, standing in the calm eye of the storm. Whether the Fereldan people were prepared or not, war was coming and nothing would be left at the end. How in the Maker's name were a single warrior and a mage expected to face such insurmountable odds alone?

Alistair halted his pacing and ambled toward the stagnant pond. He looked out over the marsh, past the tall reeds and heaved a long sigh. He was tired of it all already. Tired of feeling so lost, so hopeless. He was sick of starting over with nothing left to show for his life.

He peered up at the darkened sky, its grey clouds reflecting his mood. The Wardens had fallen. The king had fallen, and soon everything would be destroyed. Tears filled his hazel eyes then spilled down his cheeks. Maybe he should just take Solona and get out of Ferelden. The war would carry on without them, after all.

Solona

How would she feel if he told her that he planned to give up? Would she agree and go with him? Or would his cowardice and despair drive her away forever?

Alistair pictured her face, the determination in those lapis eyes, and a ray of hope entered his crestfallen heart. In such a bleak, dark future, she would be the light that would guide him. He would continue to fight, to rail against impossible odds for her. After a life of forever feeling out of place, he had finally found his home and he would withstand any enemy to preserve it.

No matter what his bloodline dictated, he was no king, no leader of men, but he would follow Solona into any battle and submit to her command. He would act as her general, offering his insight when asked, but the reins would be hers.

The sound of a door slamming shut woke Solona from a dreamless sleep. Across her forehead lay a hand with thin, calloused fingers. The mage opened her lids to the image of an ebony haired woman with golden eyes and shoulders draped in a silk, crimson scarf. She was familiar, as if a vision from some far away dream, but it was difficult to recall through the thick fog in her mind and memory.

Being proficient in the school of Entropy, Solona recognized the effects of a sleeping spell right away, but there was something else there. Something darker. By the gnawing hunger in her belly, the mage estimated she had been under the odd enchantment for at least a day, probably closer to two.

Solona squeezed her lids tight and focused on trying to remember how she got there, wherever there was. The last thing she recalled was being surrounded by horrendous, tainted creatures and her ability to manipulate the Fade waning. She reached further back in her memory and recalled a forest with bones hanging from the trees with a dark haired woman leading them through.

"Morrigan?" she asked.

The hint of a smirk emerged on the witch's face as she retrieved a small bowl from the bedside table. "Yes, 'tis I," she confirmed. "You have been asleep for some time. Mother thought you may be hungry."

A low rumbling sound emanated from Solona's stomach, confirming the mage's need for sustenance. She was famished, but she didn't fully trust Morrigan, especially considering she had just woken from the effect of a witch's spell. She regarded the dark haired woman and the bowl in her hands with suspicion.

"I cannot fault you for being skeptical, Grey Warden," said the witch. "You may test the soup if you like." She cocked a brow. "You do possess such a simple ability, do you not?"

"Of course I do," Solona confirmed with an indignant scowl. "I am no apprentice just out of my first year."

Morrigan mirrored the Warden's expression as she passed the bowl to her. "There is no need for such petulance," she chided in a supercilious tone. "I am only trying to help."

Holding the bowl in one hand, Solona hovered the other above it and concentrated on discerning its ingredients. When she was satisfied that the dish contained no more than a meager lot of vegetables and innocuous spices, she presented the other woman with a tilt of her head.

"It seems harmless enough," the Warden confirmed. "May I have a spoon, or do you expect me to just sip it straight out of the bowl?"

The witch chuckled as she presented Solona with the appropriate eating utensil. "Mother is waiting outside whenever you are finished. She requests that you speak with her before you depart."

The Warden lifted the soup laden spoon to her mouth but stopped short. "Any clue why?"

Morrigan shrugged. "Mother rarely tells me of her plans. I am simply relaying a message."

Solona took a bite of the soup and nearly gagged from the taste of it. Not only was it lukewarm, it may have been one of the most Maker awful things she had ever tasted. The vegetables were obviously not fresh and the horrible blend of spices used did nothing to cover up that fact. She grimaced and quickly dropped the spoon inside the concoction before placing the bowl back on the small table next to the bed. When Morrigan scowled at her, the younger woman regained her usual haughty countenance and smacked her lips.

"I suppose I wasn't as hungry as I thought," she lied.

The witch harrumphed then spun on her heel to exit the hut. As she stomped away, a thought occurred to Solona. She was alone with Morrigan. She took a quick glance around the room and saw no sign of Alistair or even that he had been there with her. The hunger pangs in her guts gave way to panic. He was gone. Had he perished or simply left her?

"Morrigan," she blurted, her tone more desperate than she intended it to be. "Where is Alistair?"

The witch frowned. "You mean the smaller of the dimwitted ones that were with you before?"

"Yes," Solona confirmed, doing her best to disguise her distress from both her face and her voice.

Morrigan's demeanor was indifferent. "He is outside with Mother."

A sense of pure relief washed over Solona with those words. She was unsure what she would have done if the witch's answer had been different. Alistair had become such an integral part of her life, of her. The thought of losing him, it was more than she could bear. She pulled back the coverlet and rose from the bed.

"Tell your mother I will meet with her as soon as I am dressed," Solona informed the other woman.

"Very well," the witch said. As she turned to leave, she halted before circling back. Her brow furrowed as she folded her arms over her chest. "I am curious," she admitted. "Most would want to know how they arrived here, especially considering where you were when Mother rescued you."

Although Solona was interested in learning the answer to that question, it wasn't first and foremost on her mind at the moment. She already had her suspicions about what had occurred at Ostagar. Loghain's behavior denoted a man who was paranoid and angry, desperate and scheming. It was clear to Solona the general had been resolved to do whatever was necessary to achieve his desired result. It was a bearing the mage had seen too many times in the Circle from entirely too many people.

The only thing that really concerned her at that time was Alistair. Morrigan had said he was outside with Flemeth, but she failed to note his condition. Given the fact that the two Wardens were among witches, didn't necessarily mean he was alive and well. Solona had to find out for herself whether or not her companion was truly safe.

The Warden shrugged. "I'm alive," she stated matter-of-factly. "For now, that's all I really need to know. The details of the how's and why's can be filled in later, can they not?"

The other woman smiled. "Yes," she responded. "I suppose they can."

Alistair was disappointed when the door to the cottage opened and Morrigan exited into the yard and disappeared around the side of the house. Flemeth had said that Solona would join him soon, but he was sick of waiting. He needed to know that she was alright, and until he saw her with his own eyes, his worry and anger would continue to grow. He heard the old woman suck her teeth and turned in time to see her shake her head.

"Such a shame," she muttered. "So lovely, yet so disappointing."

The witch's odd statement prompted Alistair to forget his troubles long enough to beg the question, "What's disappointing?"

"Why, my Morrigan, of course," she told him as if the answer should be obvious. "The girl possesses talent, but she lacks certain necessary qualities."

"Qualities?" the warrior asked.

"Simply an observation," the witch informed him with a dismissive wave of her hand. "Nothing of concern to you, lad. The only thing you need to know is that she will prove herself useful in your fight against the darkspawn."

Alistair's brow lifted, "And what is that supposed to mean?" he questioned.

"Exactly how it sounds," she replied in a flat tone. "Morrigan will be leaving with you and your fellow Warden."

"Absolutely not," he argued. "We don't need her."

The old woman scoffed. "I daresay you need all the help you can get, lad. Or do you intend to take on the entire horde on your own, just you and your companion? It hardly seems like a sound plan."

The warrior shook his head. "Does Morrigan even want to come along? She doesn't really seem like the social type to me."

"My daughter understands the threat of this Blight, just as I do," she answered. "She will do what is required of her."

Alistair turned his attention back to the pond and crossed his arms over his chest. As much as he didn't want to admit it, Flemeth was right. They needed help. He just wasn't sure how much help Morrigan would prove to be. They had to find a way to defeat the darkspawn, to at least have a force strong enough to stand against the horde.

Then he recalled the treaties. Solona had mentioned that she forgot to give them to Duncan while they were spanning the Tower of Ishal. He wasn't sure how it worked exactly, but he knew the documents enlisted the aid of the dwarves of Orzammar, the Circle of Magi, and the Dalish elves. Perhaps if all those groups banded together they might have a chance. A very slim one, but it was better than nothing.

As he contemplated the best way to approach each of the groups, the door to the hovel opened once again. Alistair's heart began beating so quickly with anticipation he thought it might explode. He inhaled a deep breath and held it before turning around, praying it was Solona exiting the house.

A small smile curved Solona's lips as her eyes locked with his causing him to exhale with a resonant sigh. The relief he felt couldn't be measured. Although she appeared to be slightly worse for the wear, she seemed fine. The slight flush of her cheeks had returned and her lips no longer held a hue of blue.

Alistair hurried toward her, doing his best to keep from sprinting in his excitement. When he met her halfway, he took her in his arms and hugged her close to his chest. Tears of relief spilled from his eyes to dampen her sable hair. He had never felt so grateful for anything.

"You're alive," he whispered.

"Yes," she said, her voice muffled by his armored tunic. "But I won't be for long if you continue to crush me like this."

Reluctantly, he backed away from her. She straightened her uniform before peering up at him with a playful scowl. "Afraid you were going to be left alone to fight the darkspawn by yourself?"

He gave a small chuckle. "Of course," he teased, his eyes still glistening. "You're supposed to protect me, remember?"